


the body electric

by villanelle



Category: Psycho-Pass
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-25
Updated: 2015-08-25
Packaged: 2018-04-17 04:54:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4653114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/villanelle/pseuds/villanelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So far removed from Japan, on the fringe of the home of stone gods older than Sibyl, Akane feels like she’s bathed in the light of a different moon, as if she’s inhabiting an incarnation of herself kissing a corresponding incarnation of him. As if they were two people whose stories began here and could be rewritten to continue here.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the body electric

**Author's Note:**

> I was prompted to write a ‘deleted’ smut scene from the movie. Well anon, I tried.

 

Amidst the smoke of campfire and more fragile tendrils of incense, most of the guerillas are silent and somber, their grim-set jaws grinding tobacco against bruised cheeks as they contemplate their reduction in number. As she follows Kougami deeper into the labyrinth of stone chambers, past the flap of heavy fabric delineating some of their spartan sleeping quarters, a few of the men track her form with their eyes though and openly leer.

“First time we’ve ever seen you bring anyone down here,” one of them calls out to Kougami, who ignores the jibe and shoulders past another makeshift door. “My congratulations to you, lassie, this one’s real uptight about sharing his bed.”

Striding past them, Akane keeps her gaze centered on the rigid spine of her guide, the tenseness of his posture mirroring hers. Despite the enveloping, tropical heat, a chill seeps through her from the implication in the comment.

Inside the inner atrium, with no one else in earshot, she says disbelievingly, “This is a temple. They can’t possibly be thinking –”

His hands occupied with kettle and pinches of loose-leaf tea, Kougami peers over his shoulder at her, and the knowing look in the blue sliver of his eyes makes her feel twenty again, twenty and petulant at his and Masaoka’s teasing of her ignorance of liquid vices, back when she’d been perpetually bright-eyed and willing to believe that the world was predominated by good intentions.

“Some of those men haven’t been around anyone who isn’t a refugee or one of their own for a long time. That’s why it’s better that you’re seen with me. They’re not going to attempt anything.”

Swiping a droplet of condensation off the side of her glass, Akane flicks it at him and retorts, “How kind of you to offer your protection, but I seem to recall that I threw _your_ bulk to the dirt without too much trouble.”

“That you did,” he acknowledges, tipping his glass towards her in a mock toast. They sip in silence, both cognizant of how they could fill in the void, the safer, subdued words they could trade and the ones less prudent.

It isn’t liquor in Akane’s glass, but she finds her throat cleared to speak, her voice emboldened by the warmth of the brew, by the knowledge that whatever time they have is short.

With him, she always finds herself in want of time.

“I wonder,” she ruminates, conscious of the other inhabitants, their proximity audible through reverberation against the stone walls. “If they knew who I am and who you were, would they ever consider an alternate interpretation of my being here?”

Bemused, he indulges her. “What alternate interpretation?”

“That I came here not for your pleasure, but gratification of my own desires.”

He knows she’s not just talking about the realm of the physical, not entirely. “Which lie in what?”

“In convincing you to come home.” Honesty pervades Akane’s voice, a stronger inducement to him than any contrived seduction.

“Convince me,” Kougami repeats, a flicker of reflective lantern light dancing to life in his irises and thawing the guarded ice. “And how would you accomplish that?”

On the tarp covering the open roof above them, the soft pattering of rain begins to fall.

 

* * *

 

She doesn’t wear his jacket as they make their way into the forested morass on the camp’s outskirts. The fabric, she figures, would only absorb and soak heavy with the spilling moisture, and that would only get in the way. Instead, she opts for the lighter linen of a long-sleeved shirt. By the time they cease their fleet-footed steps under the shadowed canopy of a fully flowered silk-cotton tree, the shirt clings to her skin as closely as the black mesh he’s clad in.

Climbing onto one of the more raised, knotlike coils of root for better cover, Akane stumbles on an undetected node along the tree’s base, and Kougami stabilizes her, grasping her by the elbow before slipping his fingers to the inside of her arm. At his touch, her skin prickles with the imprint of how he’d clamped his hand around the same limb hours ago, in combat. Same point of contact, different intentions.

The stumble flusters her. Isn’t she the one who’d proposed to do the convincing, after all? Allaying her doubts though is the soothing, callus-roughened run of his fingers following the tracery of pale blue veins down her arm, up again, and then Kougami dips his head, blocking out the light of the moon and consuming the field of her vision. He presses her back against the tree bark simultaneously as he kisses her, and the contrast of sensations, the coarse surface behind her and the softer molding of lips, rekindles the brassy daring she’d felt across the table from him.

Slipping her free arm around his neck, she brings him closer, pulling away teasingly from his seeking mouth for a moment to kiss chastly at his cheek before returning, open-mouthed, to meet his lips again. Gaining fluency in their gliding exchange, Akane tilts her head back for air and presses a hand against his sternum to overlap the hard planes of his chest. To have him in front of her, real and answering back in breath and body rather than just in her mind, feels like fulfillment of a fairy tale wish, made against such bleak odds that she had long since buried it into the deepest chambers of her heart.

"I used to look at you and wonder if you were near-immune to death," she tells him, her small hands weighted with the memory of pointing the Dominator at his form. "And then, I started to hope that you were."

A soft sound of amusement, and he attempts levity to her graveness, remembering the telling blush on her cheeks as she'd once commanded him to don a shirt in her presence. "Really? That's what you thought about? Good thing back then I didn't act on misreading your gaze."

Akane's responding smile is brief but impish, an echo of what it was when he was her Enforcer and her openness in expression had elicited unburdening on his part, prompting him to question himself whether he in turn invited her too much into the shadows. It does not escape him that her mouth seems so much more solemn now. 

"Back then," she murmurs with a tilt of her chin. "The only bed I associated you with was the one in the infirmary ward."

He lowers his head, returning a kiss to her moonlit cheek and a longer one to her lips. "And now? Where do we make our bed here?"

“Ground,” her hoarsened voice manages to say, and Kougami seems to understand her meaning instinctively as he steps off the nest of roots, pulling her to one of the denser patches of grass.

They’re no longer under the shade of the tree, and Akane pulls the now pointless, wet shirt over her head. Half-wrestling and half-dragging him, like an unsung siren, to the ground before she can feel self-conscious of his gaze, she finds his usually relentless body lenient to her exertion, his legs willingly making a seat of the wild grass and moss.

“You’re the one who has to be presentable,” Kougami says into her ear. “Tomorrow.” He glances up at the sky. “In hours – actually.”

She kisses him to shush him. So far removed from Japan, on the fringe of the home of stone gods older than Sibyl, Akane feels like she’s bathed in the light of a different moon, as if she’s inhabiting an incarnation of herself kissing a corresponding incarnation of him. As if they were two people whose stories began here and could be rewritten to continue here.

In his lap, nude against the broad-shouldered solidity of him, she shivers as the beads of rain on her skin begin to nip of cold, and then her shivers morph into ones enlivened by heat as he bends to taste the rain along her clavicle, the wet mounds of her breasts and the slick valley between them. Even the lave of his tongue and the suckle of his mouth doesn't quite alleviate her mounting need for friction though, and she slides closer, the flesh he's lavished meeting the hardness of his torso and less intentionally but more fulfilling to both their senses, the cleft of her swollen sex grazing the bulge of his cock. 

Rocking against him with face burrowed against the taut lines of his neck, she searches blindly for the metal of his belt, pushing the material of his pants down until her hands are met with the ridges along his hips. His own fingers are preoccupied with moving between her legs, the pad of his thumb teasing the seam of her slit and growing wetter with each stroke. She feels like a weapon in his hands, like a knife being sharpened to reach a point of its maker's desire. Appropriate, she dazedly thinks, for someone like Kougami, whose touch she does not particularly associate with gentleness, but his fingers slow in their coaxing as they delve past her drenched membranes, dripping onto his thigh, and _this_ , this she thinks she will always remember as he rubs at the rounded nub that has her effectively ruining his pants.

Overtaken, Akane feels her tether to consciousness half unraveling as his hands cup her bottom and lift her.

And then, every nerve in her body reawakens as she takes him inside of her, her adjustment to his thickened hardness straining the flex of her thighs.

Stilling inside the clenching, searing heat of her, he realizes that the path to this point has been more fluid than he expected, because so much of how he sees her is still vested in the girl of four years ago, and the lack of her body’s natural barrier isn’t exactly surprising considering their formerly shared profession and so many other factors, but he holds himself from moving.

He doesn’t move until Akane looks straight at him and tells him so quietly he’ll later wonder if he imagined it.

“I didn’t wait.”

Kougami’s body rears up against hers, and she stifles the desperate sound threatening to expel from her throat as the next thrust cleaves into her even harder. Between her splayed thighs, his rhythm builds, quickens, and she grinds back onto him as much as she can, pushing herself up by his shoulders so they can both quake against each other as he slides into her again.

Leaning back, Akane can feel his fingers leaving white imprints along her side, at her waist where he clutches her. Her eyes trail down the arms that have her in their grip, following the flex of sinew under his skin, the ripples of his strong musculature a display that only living flesh could produce.

Unspoken, she thinks,  _I didn’t wait. I didn’t know if you were alive. A lot of people told me you were most likely dead. They told me that you were better off dead._

In the distance, she hears thunder, and on the back of her eyelids, she imagines lightning cracking open the sky.

Really, she just wishes that the rain would never stop.

 

* * *

 

 

Lying on the stretch of his body, her fingers learning the new scars mapped onto his skin, Akane feels the easing beat of his heart, or perhaps, it’s hers, pressed as she is against him. 

 

She knows he’s not coming back to Japan with her. 

 

But for a moment, she feels almost as if the arms girthed around her form a home of their own. 


End file.
